


the intercontinental matchmaking mafia

by hardscrabble



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Mal/Dom, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Inception Bingo, M/M, Weddings, background Ariadne/Tadashi, nonbinary Tadashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardscrabble/pseuds/hardscrabble
Summary: Arthur needs a wedding date if he wants to avoid the meddling of Mal's aunts. Mal makes a suggestion.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 118
Collections: Inception Trope/Kink Bingo 2020





	the intercontinental matchmaking mafia

**Author's Note:**

> for Inceptiversary Trope Bingo 2020, prompt "Fake relationship/Pretend dating."

Obviously he’s ecstatic about Mal and Dom finally getting their act together and getting married. It’d be weird if he were anything less than, considering they’re two of his best and oldest friends and they’ve been disgustingly in love for years.

But, to be honest, Arthur is beginning to feel lukewarm at best about the actual wedding.

Arthur likes parties just fine. He likes being around friends and their friends, likes having food that’s a little better than usual, likes dressing a little more nicely than usual. _Loves_ talking to people, by which he actually means letting people talk to _him_ , which is just a matter of being interested in what they have to say, which he is, nearly always. He even enjoys dancing some of the time. The ideal wedding, he thinks, is just a party after some subdued ceremonial crap.

However, Mal is sitting across from him at their favorite coffee shop, elbows propped on the table and chin propped on one hand, to clarify exactly how, and how dramatically, her wedding is going to vary from his concept of ideal. It starts with “f” and kind of rhymes with “Emily.”

“The main issue,” she says, looking like she’s reciting poetry and speaking in a low, hard tone like she’s outlining a battle plan, “is my aunts. My mother’s sister, Valerie, and her brother’s wife, Ines. My father’s—well, she’s his first cousin, but my godmother, so essentially an aunt. Lucinda.” Mal smiles, the kind of expression the word _winsome_ was coined to describe. “It’s sweet, mostly. A little coven. Ines as mother, Lucinda as maiden, Valerie as crone. But their mission, especially at _sentimental_ events—” her voice goes as dry as Stephen’s on the adjective— “can be disruptive. They think themselves matchmakers, especially for eligible bachelors.”

At that, Arthur shrugs. “I’m a decent liar.”

The laugh Mal gives would be a snort from anyone less elegant. “That won’t be sufficient, my dear,” she says. “Since your fictional paramour isn’t with you at a wedding where you’re in the wedding party, they’ll decide it certainly won’t last. They’ll corner you. Pelt you with names and stories and offers to talk to friends of friends until your ears fall off. Valerie may try to lure you to Provence.”

“I like Provence okay,” Arthur says blithely.

She smiles for real, but then says, “You’re going to need a proper shield, though, my dear. I’ve got one suggestion already.”

He raises his eyebrows.

Mal straightens in her seat and drops her chin. “Eames.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest and then—doesn’t. Eames is bi (“or something,” he’s always said, waving one hand dismissively). Eames has been around Arthur long enough that they mostly get along. Eames has already RSVPed, so it’s not dragging some guy to a wedding he’s not invited to.

And if Arthur is a decent liar, Eames is a virtuosic one.

“No,” says Eames. It has the intonation of a door slamming.

“You have a date already?”

“No.”

“Mal’s aunts are some kind of intercontinental matchmaking mafia—”

“Not my problem you can’t hold your own against elderly European ladies. _No_.” That’s inflected like a chair being wedged under the doorknob. They’re outside the crew’s regular bar, after nearly everyone’s left. Eames doesn’t even turn his head—he hasn’t glanced at Arthur since he first asked to have a word—as he adds, “Your chariot awaits.”

Like she’s been waiting for his cue, Ariadne calls, “Lyft’s here.”

Arthur sighs, with an eyeroll for good measure. “ _Fine_.”

As he walks to Ari, he hears Eames murmur acidly, “Isn’t it just.”

The key word, Arthur thinks as he climbs into the backseat of the sedan after Ari, in “mostly getting along,” is definitely the “mostly.”

The wedding has two parties, although the bridesmaids and groomsmen wouldn’t know it. The _real_ party is the crew of six who don’t have the luxury of just flying in to observe the official culmination of the Mal–Dom Grand-Scale Cinematic Romance. They, the core group, have been on the ground through the entire thing, for better or worse (as they say), as roommates and study partners and get-a-grip friends and booze-buyers and excuse-providers, for the last _six years_.

Now, they’re at a little bit of a loss, because the official party has swooped in to do everything. To distract themselves, Yusuf and Nash have everyone, _sans_ Mal and Dom, come over to their shared place the weekend before the wedding. “We’re figuring it out,” says Nash while they’re waiting for the pizza delivery. “What it’s gonna look like after they…”

“They’re getting married, not dying,” Eames says, scathing.

“Weren’t you,” says Ariadne into the resulting silence, “the one complaining for a solid month when your cousin got married and stopped playing Fortnite or whatever with you?” Her tone is all thoughtful concern, but the corner of her mouth is twitching as she examines her nails.

Arthur fucking loves her, fully and unreservedly. She’d be a perfect fake date, although that’d mean she and Tadashi weren’t going together, and Tadashi has been agonizing (in the calm, organized way they agonize) over their outfit since the save-the-dates went out.

Eames straightens up, eyes narrowed—and then sighs. “Overwatch. Not Fortnite.”

That breaks the tension, with Yusuf ripping into him for his discerning taste. Tadashi laughs until Ari has to get them a glass of water. Eames takes it in relatively good humor, rolling his eyes at intervals, until the food arrives and everyone’s distracted. Nash puts on an action movie and they all resettle with their pizza and garlic knots and cheesy bread.

Arthur doesn’t know when Eames moves, but as the movie’s first gunfight breaks out, he finds him sitting on the floor right at Arthur’s feet, rather than across the room. Eames is holding his pizza slice backwards, because he prefers the crust first, and Arthur doesn’t know when he learned the reasoning for Eames’s pizza consumption style or when he stopped thinking _god, that’s weird_ about it. Although it’s still weird. Arthur himself has his slice folded, because he is normal.

“You’d like Overwatch,” says Eames. It sounds friendly, but Eames has this… way… of hiding the weirdest barbs in the most banal conversation. The kind of thing you don’t realize until hours later was an insult.

However, it seems safe enough for Arthur to reply, “Doesn’t seem like my thing.”

“It’s highly social. You’re quite good with that.” Eames smirks. “Little old ladies being your exception, of course.”

Sometimes, Eames doesn’t bother with clever little barbs. Sometimes, he just goes for the throat.

Arthur hears his own bitter weariness as he says heavily, “Yeah. I’m pathetic. Got it. Can we move on?”

Eames looks up at him, a little concern in the set of his eyebrows. “What if I’ve reconsidered the wisdom of the idea?” he asks.

Arthur snorts. “What if.”

“I’m serious,” Eames says. “Well, hang the aunts, still, but I _would_ be remiss.” His eyes flicker over Arthur’s torso before he looks back at his backwards pizza. “In not accepting a date with a fit bloke who’s offered, that is.”

 _Remiss._ Fit? Arthur makes some kind of acknowledging noise, _I have heard you say words_ , and eats more pizza.

Eames glances up again. If Arthur didn’t know better he’d say Eames is nervous, as he adds quickly, “If the offer’s still there, of course. I shouldn’t presume.”

When something like worry pulls at the corners of Eames’s mouth, Arthur realizes he’s been staring with his mouth full for a good five seconds. He swallows. “Yeah,” he says, but that’s ambiguous. “I mean. Offer stands. Or, uh, request. You know.”

Eames relaxes and smiles, just a bit. “So we’re on?”

“We’re on,” says Arthur.

At that point, Ariadne asks, “Who’s on?”

“That’s not how the skit goes,” Yusuf says absently.

“We’re going to the wedding together,” Eames volunteers, and Arthur freezes.

Nash squawks, “ _What?_ ” and scrambles to pause the movie as Yusuf, Ariadne, and Tadashi whip around to look at them.

“Since when?” Tadashi demands.

Eames’s brow furrows, like he doesn’t understand the fuss, and he places his non-pizza hand on Arthur’s knee. “Just now, really,” he says, his tone warm, fond, and the least bit shy.

The shyness is what tips Arthur off.

Eames is… a lot of things, but he’s not shy, and if he’s faking that he is, then he’s _daring_ Arthur to play along, as if they— Oh.

Arthur, he realizes, isn’t just getting a fake date out of this; he’s getting an entire fake boyfriend.

Might as well roll with it.

Hesitant, Yusuf says, “I hadn’t thought you were…”

“Kind of snuck up on us,” Arthur says smoothly, just a touch abashed, and gives Eames a little smile.

Eames blinks at him, eyebrows raised a tiny bit. Surprise. He expected Arthur to backpedal, claim Eames was bullshitting. He did _not_ expect Arthur to buy in.

Well, Arthur isn’t going to let him have _all_ the fun.

“That’s what it takes to get an Arthur to admit he doesn’t see everything coming,” Ari marvels on their way to the car.

“ _You_ didn’t see it,” Tadashi points out.

“Because the thing where they hate each other was blocking my view.”

Arthur says, “Hey. We obviously got past that.”

“Oh, obviously,” says Ariadne.

Tadashi puts their hand on Ari’s shoulder and stage-whispers, “Be nice. He’s had to admit fallibility,” and Ari laughs and kisses their cheek and subsides. For now.

It isn’t like they actually _hated_ each other, Arthur thinks. They’ve never clashed, per se, although he’ll admit to veiled hostility. Just—Eames is touchy about… everything. Particularly regarding details of his personal life that he deems situationally irrelevant, his definition for which is amorphous and ever-expanding. His defense is offense, a field of verbal landmines. He’s always, _always_ on guard.

Arthur has learned to be the same when they talk. Which is fairly frequently, considering the sizes and overlap of their friend groups, but at some point in each conversation something… goes wrong. Suddenly they’re talking past each other, or a joke lands wrong, and one or the other snaps, and the other snaps back, and they take their leave in high dudgeon and pretend nothing has happened the next time they’re in the same place.

And now they’re going to pretend a _lot_ of things have happened in a very short time, and keep it up for six days.

Come Wednesday—T minus two days—his phone buzzes with a text while he’s eating leftover Chinese out of the carton.

_bar in 30? whats our story hm? x_

He replies as soon as he puts down his fork. _10-4_.

The bar is just their regular, but what’s not regular is Eames posted up outside, hands in his pockets. When he sees Arthur, he smiles, a little soft sideways thing; he says nothing, but holds out one arm, like _shall we?_ Arthur returns the smile and gets the door. Eames’s hand is hovering at the small of his back.

Because if anyone they know is around—likely—this behavior will look right for the story.

Eames murmurs, “Table? I’ll get this round,” and Arthur decides to roll with it, gets a table for two after determining its top is the least sticky of the available options. When Eames comes back, he has a basket of fries as well as the two beers. Dark stout for Eames, Belgian white for Arthur.

“So,” says Eames, settling in. “What have we got?”

Arthur takes a drink, eyes on him; after a moment, Eames shifts, discomfited. He puts his glass back on the table and says, “We realized our mutual antagonism was a defense mechanism against mutual attraction. Decided to drop the defense mechanism and see what happened.” He clears his throat and goes on smoothly. “We hooked up twice this week and the sex was mind-blowing. Wedding’s a test drive for real compatibility when we’re not fucking.” Eames drops a fry at that. “Since we’ll be surrounded by friends,” Arthur concludes, “we have a buffer if it doesn’t work out.”

The thing about backstories is verisimilitude, after all. And Arthur is really good at backstories.

Sure, the mutual attraction part is bullshit, but he’ll happily admit he thinks Eames is hot, because he _has eyes_.

“Obviously,” Arthur says, after Eames has sat there with his hand frozen in midair for about ten seconds, “we don’t tell about the hookups, unless directly asked. Obviously, because the people we know have no concept of personal privacy, they’ll ask directly and repeatedly. Sunday night and tonight, both at yours. I didn’t stay over.”

“Didn’t you,” says Eames faintly.

Arthur smiles at him, only a little tentative.

Eames narrows his eyes as a returning smile tugs at his mouth. “I’m beginning to realize I’ve underestimated you.”

“That was your first mistake,” Arthur says, and when Eames’s eyes flare, he laughs.

The prelude is drawing to a close when Eames mutters, “How long are we running this?”

Arthur keeps a faint smile on as he leans close to reply, exactly how one person in the beginning of a romantic relationship would speak to a partner while waiting for their best friends’ wedding to begin. “After the brunch tomorrow, we’re clear.” Eames’s cologne is peppery in his nose.

Eames straightens his beige linen suit jacket. The break of the trousers over his two-colored spectators is perfect, and the coral-pink shirt is crisp and summery. No tie, but the dress code had been _ready to dance_ , so… “May I say,” he murmurs to Arthur, “you’re looking quite elegant. I feel a bit shown up.”

Arthur smirks, lopsided, so his dimples come out on the side facing Eames. His own brown pinstripe—just the trousers and waistcoat; it’s too warm for the jacket—is one of his favorites, brightened with a saffron-colored tone-on-tone shirt and a maroon tie. “You clean up all right, I’d say.” He turns his head to eye Eames from head to toe—

—and Eames flushes. Barely noticeable with his tan, but it’s there.

He files that away for later, because now the processional is starting, and for fuck’s sake, he’s here to see his two best friends get _married_ , fake boyfriend or not.

After the enchantment of the ceremony, the reception seems riotous. It’s buffet-style, sit-where-you-will, and one of Mal’s bridesmaids—a cousin, he thinks—designates herself as the couple’s bodyguard for twenty minutes so they can eat in peace. The guests come together in clusters, some settling at tables and others content to stand and wander. Arthur claims a corner table, where Eames actually sits with him. Yusuf and Nash join them, both making kissy noises when Eames offers to fetch Arthur a fresh drink. Eames tells them to fuck off, but again—that faint flush.

They’re visited often. The entire bridal party seems to have decided it’s essential to speak with the _real_ party, sending over members one by one. Ariadne and Tadashi are mingling, Ariadne in a turquoise sheath and silver heels and Tadashi’s much-analyzed dove-grey trousers and floral-patterned waistcoat striking a perfect balance against their white shirt. When they make their way over, Mal’s parents do as well; Stephen had been Ariadne’s adviser throughout her master’s course, and Marie has hosted enough dinner parties for their entire crew to know far too much about their business.

It’s Marie who offers Arthur—and Eames—a glowing smile as she says, “It’s marvelous to see you’ve finally come around on each other, boys.”

The _finally_ throws Arthur for a moment, but Eames is ready for it. “Just a matter of time,” he says, and leans his shoulder against Arthur’s. It feels natural.

Of course, the real test is yet to come. Ines, Valerie, and Lucinda descend as one, ordering extra chairs to the table and all talking at once. There are introductions all around, as Lucinda beams at Ari and Tadashi’s clasped hands. Ines asks Yusuf how his research is faring and Nash about his deejaying job at the local radio station.

Valerie merely looks at Arthur and Eames. She has the same large eyes as Mal and Marie, although hers are lighter. Being under her gaze is like getting an X-ray, but just as Eames is clearing his throat, she says, “You make each other happy. I’d thought you would.”

“We’ve not had the pleasure of your acquaintance before,” Eames says. Somehow, he manages to make it sound polite, curious, and wary all at once.

“Ah, but Mallorie speaks highly of you both.” Valerie smiles, small and secretive. “So. I have had something of an advantage. You are surprised?”

“A little surprised,” Arthur says, and it’s the truth, he realizes. “For us.” The bar on Wednesday, the ceremony earlier, and just now Eames leaning against him—none of Eames’s little spikes have gone away, but they haven’t been _at_ Arthur; he’s actually funny, when that’s the case. Eames isn’t an open book, but he’s not locked shut as he was before. It’s—

Well. Better than he had expected.

Valerie nods at his answer and he’s bracing himself for another _what_ moment when Dom’s best man stands on a chair to announce the upcoming toasts. Caterers fan out from behind the buffet table with trays of champagne flutes. Again, as one, the aunts turn their chairs to face Mal and Dom.

“Surprised?” Eames repeats, directly into Arthur’s ear.

Arthur doesn’t jump, although the suddenness of it is a little startling and the tingling spreading from his ear to his throat is just confusing. “Aren’t you?” he asks in an undertone.

“Gobsmacked, to be honest.” Eames laughs, so softly it’s barely more than an exhale against Arthur’s neck. “I’ve only wanted to strangle you twice since Saturday.”

“I want to punch you less,” says Arthur.

Eames sighs, a high fluttery thing, dramatized. “Your way with words. How could I resist?”

There are exactly two slow songs during the dancing portion of the night. The first is Mal and Dom’s, an Edith Piaf that they sing to each other, foreheads pressed together.

For the second, Eames says, “Shall we?”

“Of course,” Arthur replies, and there’s that faint surprise on Eames’s face again.

It’s… a dance. They talk beneath the music, comments on other people’s outfits and the ceremony and the toasts, almost none of which Arthur paid any attention to. Eames is delighted to hear that and spends half the song needling him about it. Arthur’s heart doesn’t race; his palms don’t sweat; his internal organs all stay where they belong. But it’s surprising, he thinks, how _normal_ it seems. Like he could be holding one of Eames’s hands and fake-waltzing (no one knows ballroom; no one cares) as a matter of course. Just another Friday afternoon at another summer wedding.

He looks away from Mal dancing with Stephen, glances at Eames, and swallows. His face is soft, warm; his eyes are their same blue-grey, but they’re crinkled at the corners and fixed on Arthur’s. “We’re doing rather well at this,” he murmurs.

“Should we be doing worse?” Arthur asks, voice low. “They might expect us to keep this up.” He can’t tell if he thinks that’s a problem, so he tries to say it lightly.

Eames smirks at that. “We could arrange a row during brunch,” he suggests.

“Nothing that flashy,” says Arthur. “It’s still about Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, remember.” He hears his voice softening on that—Mal is beaming at her father, and Dom at his mother, and they’re both… glowing. Finally got there.

Eames _hmm_ s in response. Arthur takes it as agreement.

That is, until Eames says, “Or we could make your story a bit realer.”

Arthur blinks. “Could we?”

“Might be easy,” says Eames, diffident. “Might be a disaster. Might be quite fun. Only you’d rather hit the nail on the head on Wednesday.”

Arthur blinks again.

“Oh, do keep up. The mutual antagonism as cover for—”

“—mutual attraction…”

“The only question is whether the reciprocity on the latter is part of the story,” says Eames. He only sounds that playful when he’s nervous, Arthur knows, and doesn’t know how he came to know it.

Now, Arthur smiles. “Who says it’s a story?”

They’re very late to the brunch. Eames fusses; Arthur can’t bring himself to care. If they look like they were up all night, so should everyone else within ten years of their age, because the afterparty went until midnight. Mal and Dom greet them quickly and promise to talk more later; they still have family to catch up with.

As they’re dishing up quiche and fruit salad and whatever else happens to be there, Ariadne sidles up and elbows Arthur. “You guys are cute,” she says.

“I have never been _cute_ in my life,” Eames mutters, acerbic.

“Aww. Have some tea; you’ll feel cuter.” Ariadne grins and dances out of the way when Eames turns on her, spoon in hand.

“No spoon murders,” says Arthur. “Not during breakfast.”

Eames sighs. “You are no fun at all, darling.”

“Not what you said last night,” Arthur says in an undertone, because when the opportunity presents itself, he treasures immaturity. Eames snorts.

When they’re each on their second cups of coffee, Mal arrives at Arthur’s side. “Scoot.” Arthur does, so he’s only sitting on half the chair cushion; Mal drops next to him. “You’re a love,” she tells him, and then looks between him and Eames. A slow Cheshire-cat smile grows on her face.

“That’s your plotting face,” Eames says. “You’re on your honeymoon in six hours; how can you be plotting—”

“This,” Mal interrupts, “is my successful-completion-of-a-plot face, actually.”

Arthur freezes.

Eames, though, simply toasts her with his coffee cup. “The intercontinental matchmaking mafia welcomes its newest generational talent,” he intones. “Cheers for the tip-off, by the way.”

“I would say ‘anytime,’ but I do only hope it’s the once,” says Mal, still grinning. “Do make sure our Arthur comes back to this plane of existence, my dear. He’s had a bit of a shock.”

She pats Arthur’s back soothingly and vanishes.

“I,” says Arthur, “have been played.”

“Spectacularly,” replies Eames. “Regrets?”

He thinks. Pretends to think, really, and says firmly, “None.”

**Author's Note:**

> that's a bingo!
> 
> thanks for reading :) comments loved and appreciated! I'm valhecka on tumblr :)


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